The Half Fallen
by Atthla
Summary: Light and dark. Angel and demon. That they have the same face is only the beginning of the problem. Clonecest.


**The Half-Fallen Prologue (Dirge in the Night)**

**Author: Atthla**

**Warning: **Angst. Classic angel-and-demon AU. Yaoi.

**Pairing:** Clonecest (C!Syaoran x R!Syaoran)

**Disclaimer: **CLAMP owns all.

**Summary: **Light and dark. Angel and demon. That they have the same face is only the beginning of the problem.

**Notes: **The utter seme-ness of C!Syaoran in the deluxe cover of volume 23 is entirely responsible for the birth of this fic. Hope everyone enjoy!

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Syaoran closed his eyes and felt his muscles gave away as he collapsed onto the bed with a low moan, the crushing weight of his clone following on top of him. He heard himself groaning softly in protest, but otherwise made no attempt to budge or urge the other to move away. The chest against his back was warm and slick with sweat and the harsh, shallow breathing on the back of his neck made his fingers curl against the cold blanket.

It was almost unfair, the way _he_ could make him feel.

Seconds, and then minutes, met their silent death without a fuss, drifting into passing with each wasted breath. Syaoran felt oddly alive. Without the hum of magic in his blood. Without the ornate hilt of his sword clasped between too-tight fingers. Without duty, or any obligation to stand in anyone's way, least of all the person he had come to love much more than he should. He lay there and felt, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the other's breathing, and listened, to the voiceless confessions whispered to his senses, to the subtle change in the voice of the wind, blending with so many other nocturnal sounds.

He could almost smile, and pretend that the world had not taken from them more than it should.

When his clone finally shifted, lips brushing his nape in passing, Syaoran couldn't help a shiver. The sudden absence of warmth invited wisps of night breeze to dance across his naked skin as a finger slowly trailed its way down his spine. A pair of lips followed, first resting on his shoulder blade before moving southward, slow, lazy kisses marking their quiet journey. Syaoran bit down a gasp when something hot and pliant grazed the patch of coarse skin on his back, the flimsy seal – the only one – to his charcoal-black wings.

"Wait," he whispered, voice rough though certainly not from lack of use, considering the amount of moaning and screaming he had done in the last hour. He turned around and caught his clone's wayward hand, feeling the fingers coil instinctively around his. The look on the other's face made his stomach clench painfully and it took his entire willpower not to look away. Those raw emotions, strained against a hard, expressionless mask in the field of emptiness. It was obvious that they were fighting this battle in vain.

"Tomorrow," the clone started, but seemed to have lost both the head and tail of his sentence before he could continue. The blank, unyielding façade slipped a little and for a fraction of a moment, he wasn't the merciless Archangel of War, only a boy who had no idea what to do with these emotions wreaking so much havoc in his chest.

"Is tomorrow," Syaoran heard himself responding calmly – as calmly as his trembling voice allowed it. It was already past midnight, but if the difference between tomorrow and today was only made by one small, insignificant second, why would it matter?

It would. He closed his eyes, swallowing a bitter laugh. Oh but it would.

There was a light kiss to the corner of his lips and he found the mismatched eyes regarding him closely, silently, a slight frown on the otherwise flawless mask. Syaoran tried to smile. He could almost delude himself that there was a ghost of affection in those eyes, a loving caress to his blackened soul. He wanted to speak, but the heavy lump which had suddenly settled in his throat rendered speech beyond his reach. Words tightly wound into knots, impossible to unravel, and it was only because tears were the bane of every demon that he forced himself to speak again.

"Tomorrow is tomorrow," he repeated, his voice faltering at the end, and crushed his clone's lips against him to stifle a sob that was threatening to break away from his throat. His chest felt like it was about to burst, but he only pulled the other closer, allowing no room for notions like battles or angels and demons between them. It was a night that belonged only to them. Now. This moment.

Sunrise would mark the beginning of their war.

But it was not until the hours of the night had further deepened, until the only sound echoing in his ears had softened into a low set of breathing, quiet against the base of his neck, until his fingers had gently threaded themselves in the mass of much-too-familiar brown hair, that he dared to lend his thoughts once more the barest voice.

"I love you," he whispered, an admission to shatter centuries of battle and burn bridges of long-standing enmities.

But the words, without witness, only fell dead against the silence of the room.

**_End Prologue_**

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